Ele conseguiu


Aos 45 do segundo tempo, Chicken conseguiu levantar os 5000 dólares que ele precisava para colocar o nome dele na cédula eleitoral da eleição para prefeito de San Francisco. E foi entregar o “chequinho” dele em pessoa na prefeitura, onde encontrou o atual prefeito e candidato à reeleição, Gavin Newsom. Diálogo entre os dois:

Gavin: Oi Chicken, beleza? Mas o que você está fazendo aqui?

Chicken: Fala Gavin, tudo bem? Vim ver o meu futuro escritório…

Gavin (em tom professoral): Chicken, não conte o ovo no cu da galinha… (OK, tradução livre mas foi esse o espírito da coisa)

Eu também estava lá. Suando dentro de uma fantasia de gorila. Mas ninguém tirou foto. Chuif…

Comentário do meu amigo Bud Ugly sobre essa foto:

“É por coisas como essa que eu não quero ter uma TV de alta definição. Mas pelo menos agora eu tenho o número da conta dele.”

E o Chicken, sobre a experiência:

Last Friday was the deadline to file for mayor. I barely made the money. I barely figgered out (with 3 lawyers helping me) how to file the paperwork. I woke up early, washed my body, said my prayers, ate a good breakfast and rushed like a madman for the rest of the day. I filed at 4:45. The news cameras waited for me. It was odd. Pretty cool, though. I walked through city hall with an entorage of reporters that I mostly ignored. Friends were waiting at the election office and cheered. I kissed babies. I spoke in soundbites. I made eye contact. I was a screen that everyone projected their Amercia on. OK, maybe not, but I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. I walked into city hall and wanted to see Gavin’s office. I don’t know why, I just wanted to. I didn’t even know where it was, I had to ask directions. Room 200. The walls were cherry hardwood. The rug was like a casino. The confluence of colognes and perfumes in the office was surreal. It’s a stunning building. Marble everywhere. Polished. Cavernious. Vapid. It was like the ceilings were designed to maximize the sound of people screaming. I thought of a concert of bassoons playing on the steps, with old ladies tap dancing up and down the marble dias. I dressed wrong. I wore dark, should have worn light. Light is taller. I filed the papers and took everyone out for a drink. Drinks. Drunk. Fall down. Exausted. Mentally spent. Very emotional. Couldn’t sleep. Read Huck Finn. Again. How words can jump off the page like that and dance in front of your eyes. How little blips of ink on paper can create charicters so complex. Crazy people are starting to write me email. And call me. Angry people. Bizzarre people. Bring it on, city of freak flags flying high…


2 comments so far

  1. Graciele on


  2. Dr. Fiasco on

    E durma-se com esse barulho…

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